


The Cruelest Month

by Kass



Series: The Sentinel fanworks [43]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Time, M/M, tax shelter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-05
Updated: 2008-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kass/pseuds/Kass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Tax Shelter project. "Every day Sandburg went straight for the kitchen table, picked through the mail, muttered a curse, and got himself a beer."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cruelest Month

Every day Sandburg went straight for the kitchen table, picked through the mail, muttered a curse, and got himself a beer.

Some days, aftewards, he flopped down on the couch. Some days he made dinner. Once he hung out in the kitchen while Jim cooked.

As the days went by, the curses seemed more vehement. Less good-natured. One day, Jim finally asked.

"They haven't sent my 1099."

"They...?"

As the word left his mouth, Jim realized who Sandburg meant: Rainier. Apparently Sandburg could see the understanding dawn, because he smiled, an angry twist that bore no resemblance to his usual expression, and went on to get his beer.

"They don't have a leg to stand on," Jim said later.

Sandburg glanced at him and shrugged. "They know I don't want to call." Then he unmuted the television and returned his attention to the game.

Then one day he came home, headed for the mail, and muttered a different curse. This time when he got the beer, he took an envelope with him.

Sandburg retreated after the pizza came. He left his door open, which Jim liked; if they were both in the house with doors open, Jim could preserve the illusion that they were still spending as much time together as they used to. He sat with his book and listened to the papers rustling.

Not long later, the pen scratches stopped. Jim angled his head slightly and zoomed vision in to read, in the reflection of Sandburg's darkened monitor, why Sandburg wasn't working.

The pen was poised over the line which read "Occupation."

* * *

Near midnight, Sandburg emerged, rolling his arms back and cracking his neck. "God, I hate this shit." When he stretched, his t-shirt rode up slightly, exposing a crescent of skin.

Jim reminded himself not to stare.

"We could've sent them to Hal," he offered. "We still can. There's time."

Sandburg shrugged. "I'm almost done." He sat down on the couch beside Jim and let his head fall back. "But man, my neck is killing me."

Apropos of nothing, a moment later, he muttered "I need to get laid."

Jim glanced at him: faded sweatshirt, plaid pyjama pants, wool socks. "You planning to go out? In that?" Amusement in his tone, hiding the jealousy of whoever Sandburg might meet.

Sandburg grinned. "Nah, I'm too lazy. Which effectively limits my options, I realize."

"Hey, is it my fault you're a purist?"

Sandburg turned his head and stared as if Jim had grown horns.

"What?"

"I'm not a purist," Sandburg said, slowly. "At least, if you mean 'purist' the way I think you do."

It was like a roller-coaster ride, the way his stomach dropped and heart soared.

A minute passed. "You're not straight," Jim said, cautiously.

Sandburg shook his head.

"I thought..." Jim's voice trailed off as the implications of this new understanding dawned.

Sandburg let his head fall back onto the couch, which was shaking slightly because Sandburg was chuckling. Then he was full-out laughing. "Are we really that dumb?"

Jim grinned; the whole world seemed lighter. "I guess we must be."

The silence was different now. Not accusatory, but promising. Sandburg's heartrate was ratcheting up. And something in the air was tantalizing. Made Jim's mouth water. When he glanced over, Sandburg shifted to take Jim's face in his hands. Strong hands.

"It's the thirteenth," Jim said, a last feeble protest. "Don't you need—"

"Fuck the taxes," Sandburg rasped, and then their mouths met, and April wasn't the cruelest month at all.


End file.
